To speak to him again
by Giraffes Sent Me
Summary: He needed to hear Sherlock say something else than those last words. "Goodbye John". At this point he was prepared to do anything to have a conversation with his best friend again. To tell him those things he never said. [Short one-shot, set a week after TRF]


Normally, he would just have walked right pass. Normally, he would not ever consider going in. Normally, the thought would not even cross his mind. Nothing was normal anymore, though. Nothing would ever be again.

Ella had made him talk about it. She had made him speak his name. It was still raw, still so very raw, and his insides were aching because of it. The rain was pelting down. His shoes were wet, his jacket was soaked and he had nowhere to go. It was too terrifying to go back to an empty flat and he could not stand the thought of visiting someone else. If he visited someone else he would be forced to talk. He did not want to talk. The only one he wanted to talk to would not talk ever again.  
"Goodbye John", and then not another word. Not ever again.

If the loss ever felt abstract, it was the realization that he would never hear that deep baritone again that made it unbearably concrete. Twice, after too much whiskey, he had called his voicemail just to hear that voice. Just to remind himself how it sounded when it was not marred by grief. He needed to hear it say something else than those last words. "Goodbye John". At this point he was prepared to do anything to have a conversation with his best friend again. To tell him those things he never said.

It was then, right then, that he literally walked right into the sign standing on the pavement. Rain, held back tears and the increasing darkness had made him less observant, causing the metal sign hanging from a frame to collide with his bad leg without him noticing before the pain bloomed up his side. The sign was burgundy red, with tarnished gold letters:

"Mrs Maudle offer's  
Tarot  
Fortunetelling  
Medium – Speak to you're loved ones!"

He frowned and rubbed his aching leg. As far as signs went, this did nothing to establish any kind of trust in the apparent mrs Maudle. At the exact moment that he decided to continue his limping way towards nowhere, the door to the establishment swung open and two giggling girls erupted from it – nearly colliding with the griefstruck man on the pavement.

Normally he would have ignored it. Normally he would have thought nothing of it. Nothing was normal anymore, though. The sight of the warm and inviting interior beyond the open door made him hesitate for a moment. Then, before the door closed again, he was inside the waiting room of mrs Maudle.

The room was painted the same burgundy as the sign but, unlike the sign, it was modern, sleek and utterly professional. A girl in a sleek bob was seated behind a desk at the far end. She looked up and gave him a trained smile as he approached.  
"Good evening, sir", she said, "Would you please wait for a moment? Mrs Maudle will call you when she is ready".  
Numbly, he nodded and sat down on one of the modern chairs in the waiting room. He was the only one there, except for the girl. A water cooler near the entrance made a cheerful noise before the room fell into silence again. He looked down on his shoes. They were soaked right through. He wondered for how long he would stand wearing them before he needed to go back to the flat and get some dry socks.

"Mr Watson?" called a woman's voice, making him jump and turn around.  
A middle aged woman in a soft, brown suit was standing in the doorway next to the desk. Everything about her was neat, from her dainty shoes to her cropped hair. The only thing marring the picture was the hideous scar that ran diagonally across where her left eye ought to have been. Her right eye was a milky shade of blue.  
"Yes..?" he said hesitantly.  
"Please, it's time for our talk", mrs Maudle said and made a gesture towards her office.

They sat down on opposite sides of a modern desk. Mrs Maudle moved with the careful grace that many blind possess. The room was neat, comfortable and verging on sterile. There were none of the knickknacks that the sign would have led him to expect. She smiled at him.  
"You're sceptical. Was it the sign that put you off? Or is it that dabbling in the occult does not sit easily with your scientific frame of mind? Don't worry: you would not be the first doctor looking for answers beyond those found in the Lancet". She smiled again – and then her brow furrowed.  
"You're so sad. It comes off you in waves. What did he do to you?"  
He cleared his aching throat and looked at his shoes again. They needed to be polished. He would do it later. What did he do here, anyway? They had not even told him how much this would cost. Did mediums nowadays accept credit cards?  
"Who says that anyone has done anything to me?" he said and fixed his stare on her blue eye.  
"You don't need to say it. It's there for everyone to see. Sherlock did something to you," she said as if it would be obvious. He drew a sharp breath. His heart nearly stopped. Pain and anger fought for space. Anger came out first.  
"Don't do that!" he snarled.  
"Do what, Mr Watson?" she replied, still perfectly calm but with her brow still furrowed.  
He rubbed his forehead. Tears were prickling his aching eyes again. He rested his tired head in tired hands and mumbled his reply.  
"Don't play me. I'm not in the mood. Do your thing, but don't play cheap tricks with me."  
Mrs Maudle arranged herself even more neatly, hands crossed on the shining tabletop.  
"And what would 'my thing' be, mr Watson?"

He looked anywhere but at her. He fixed his gaze out the little window. Traced the raindrops as they made their way down the pane. He folded his hands so hard it hurt. He licked his lips. He cleared his throat. The words did not want to come out.  
"Speak to him," he choked out, "I need to speak to him."  
"Of course", mrs Maudle said, "To whom to you want to speak?"  
He shook his head. He had to say it. He had said it for Ella just an hour earlier. He could do it.  
"Sssh", he started, "I need to speak to Sssh... Sherlock. Holmes. Yes. Please."  
"Of course", mrs Maudle said again, "His name is all over you. You shine with it."  
She tilted her head back ever so slightly. He dared not look up. He wanted to go, to forget the whole thing. To forget the WHOLE thing. To go back to Afghanistan, not ever have set foot in London again.

After a few seconds mrs Maudle began to hum, as if she was confused.  
"Did you say 'Sherringford Holmes'? I could have sworn it was 'Sherlock'."  
An irritated sound escaped his mouth and he shook his head sharply.  
"Don't make me say it again. I'm really not in the sodding mood."  
"That's what I thought..." mrs Maudle muttered and tilted her head.  
Another few seconds passed with only the rain on the window to break the silence.  
"This is peculiar", mrs Maudle mused, "Considering how bright you shine with his name I would have thought that he had passed over much sooner. It must be encouraging to know that people still miss you so acutely 120 years later, though".  
She smiled at him when his head snapped up.  
"120 years? No, he...He 'passed over' last week."  
An even deeper frown marred mrs Maudle's brow.  
"No. Sherlock Holmes passed over in 1893. He is quite adamant about this. May 1893. He does not seem like a man who gets his dates wrong."

He jumped up from the chair, fuming in rage. Short, enraged strides back and forth besides mrs Maudle's desk.  
"No! No! I'm not doing this! I'm not going to listen to some charlatan! He died last week! I was there! I saw... I saw... He definitely died last week!"  
"Mr Watson", said mrs Maudle's gentle voice, "There is only one Sherlock Holmes on this side. He died in May 1893. Have you got anything belonging to _your_ mr Holmes? Even a picture would do."

The rage and confusion were rooting him to the spot. His leg ached to high heavens. He clenched and unclenched his hands again and again. This was such a mistake. He should have gone to the pub. He should have ignored the sign. He cleared his throat, stretched his neck.

"Here", he said and offered his mobile phone, a bright picture of Sherlock in the ear-hat on the display. He did not look at it. Mrs Maudle did not look at it. She simply stretched out her hand towards the mobile and gasped as her fingertips reached it.  
"Oh! He misses you. He's dizzy with it. It's a danger night", she said, clearly affected.

The mobile was snapped back and he was across the room, reaching for the door handle, before she had finished speaking.  
"I'm not doing this!", he yelled.  
"John", she said softly and making him freeze in his tracks, "It's all a magic trick. There will be more miracles."

How much the consultation cost, or how he got back to the flat - or even if he polished the shoes - were things lost from his memory. Many things happening over the next few weeks, months and years were lost. They did not matter. He could, however, remember with perfect clarity every second from that night when he looked up and stared into the pale eyes of the returned Sherlock Holmes. He could remember many more nights since. He asked for a miracle, and he got it.

Years later when they were laying in _their_ bed, he used to press his ear against a pale chest.  
"Speak to me", he would whisper.  
He would fall asleep to a quiet murmur, hear it and feel it. He would have said everything he needed to say, but he would never tire of listening. And all would be well.


End file.
